The Day of Rest
by liviafan1
Summary: He loves that he gets her all to himself on Sundays. Short FutureFic. Complete.


**Short and sweet.**

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><p>Sundays have always been his favorite day of the week.<p>

He isn't religious, but he likes the idea of 'the day of the rest', where the people of the world sleep in a little later, are a little lazier, and maybe just a bit happier.

He loves that he gets her all to himself on Sundays. After they were married, they'd agreed to make it a rule that there was at least one day at week where she wasn't on call, a day that murder wouldn't be able to interrupt them. He'd chosen Sunday; it just seemed fitting.

Gates hadn't been thrilled, of course, but she couldn't object, either. Up until a few months before they were married, Kate was pulling double shifts left and right, wiping the streets during the day and burrowing into her mom's case at night. About a month before they were married, they'd finally caught the bastard and put him behind bars.

And it was finally Kate's turn to _rest._

"Mmm, you're staring," she mumbles sleepily, shifting her naked body to face his.

He laughs. "How'd you know?"

She flicks an eye open. "Subtlety has never been your strong suit, Castle."

"Touche, Detective." He brushes his lips across hers. She smiles against them.

She stretches lazily, her long legs slipping from beneath the sheets. Sigh. He loves rumpled, sleepy—did he mention sexy?—Kate. He lets his fingers trail up her legs, eliciting a delicious shiver from her.

She moans. "Haven't you had enough?"

"Never," he growls before claiming her lips with his again. She chuckles throatily, capturing his bottom lip with her teeth. She slides a warm hand across his chest to snake around his neck, playing with the fine hairs she finds there.

He slips his hand under her to wrap around her waist, pulling her tighter to him. She groans, pulling away from him as his mouth trails down to her chin, brushing light kisses across her jaw line.

"I'm really not up for round three, Rick," she admits on a contented sigh.

"I know," he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"You're not either, are you, old man?" she teases.

He doesn't even pretend to be offended; it's too much a part of their repertoire. "That's what you think." He waggles his eyebrows, putting on his best leer.

She rolls her eyes and he knows she sees right through him.

He's exhausted, actually. Their last case was a tough close and they hadn't seen the inside of the loft since Friday. They'd barely made it through the door late last night before they were grappling for each other, tearing clothes off, and clawing at hot flesh. It was raw, rough, and fast—the only thing they knew to do to erase the horrific scenes that were seared in their brains.

He woke her in the middle of the night, needed to feel her pressed against him, to remind him of the _good_. They'd taken their time; the rush—the urgency—was gone.

"How you doin'?" she asks softly, brushing a thumb over his eyebrow.

He shrugs, doesn't really want to talk about it, but doesn't really need to talk about it, either. She's made it better.

"It's Sunday," he says simply, as if the day can erase all the bad memories, all the tragedy.

She smiles. "It is."

He grins, rolls them so that she's lying on top of him. "Can we just stay in bed all day?"

She raises an eyebrow. Really?

Yeah, he didn't think she'd go for it.

"Gotta join the land of the living sometime. God knows we've seen enough of the dead lately."

Hmm. Valid point.

"If you're gonna make me get up, then I think the least you can do is make me breakfast," he says, caressing her hip lazily with his thumb.

She huffs. "Make your own damn breakfast."

He makes a face. "But you're a better cook."

"Heaven forbid you make _me_ breakfast for a change." He actually makes breakfast for her quite often; he knows that if he doesn't, she'll skip it in favor of heading into the precinct earlier with just a cup of coffee in her system.

"All right. Smorlettes it is."

She groans, ducks her head in the crook of his arm.

"Fine." She pushes herself off him, wrapping the sheet around her body. He grins when she turns her back to him, knows she hates his breakfast concoctions.

Or any edible concoctions of his, for that matter, he notes sourly.

"You better wipe that smirk off your face, Mr. Castle, or you'll be sleeping with the dog tonight."

"Yes, dear."

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><p><em>This might be the last thing I write for a while, apart from Days of Summer. I've begun (well, not really begun, necessarily, but it's just kind of been slapping me in the face lately) to doubt my abilities as a writer (in general, not just fanfiction), so I'm thinking of just leaving this medium to the ones who do it better. <em>

_It's easy to feel a part of this fandom, but it's also easy to feel excluded._

_I'm not making any decisions because I'm tired and emotional and making decisions in this state isn't the best idea, but I'm just putting it out there so it's not a big surprise if I do decide to quit, either permanently or temporarily._

_And like I said, I'm finishing Days of Summer._

_Anyways, I've taken up enough of your time. Have a good week._

_Olivia_


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